The Hallowed Isle Book Two Read Free

one who hunts on the storm. He is coming—do you hear him?” She pointed northward, head cocked, listening.
    The fire hissed, and above that came the sound of the rising wind, gusting through the branches of the trees beyond the palisade with a sound like surf on some distant shore. And beyond that . . . deep as her own heartbeat, the drumming of hooves.
    Oesc’s voice came to her as if from a great distance. “I don’t understand—”
    â€œCome—” The wicce rose from her stool. Without needing to think about it, she took the spear from its corner and started toward the door.
    She could sense the boy’s confusion, but to her spirit the hoofbeats were growing ever closer. If the boy’s presence had been a scent on the breeze, what was coming now was the wind itself, a storm of terror and delight that could whirl consciousness itself away.
    Hæthwæge pulled open the door. Wind swirled around her, insistent as a lover, plucking the pins from her hair. She felt the spearshaft vibrate in her hand and laughed.
    I am coming, I am coming, my lord and my love . . . .
    Laughing, she walked into the storm to meet the god, in that moment scarcely caring if the boy followed her.
    Outside, dusk was falling fast. Oesc splashed through the puddles to catch up with Hæthwæge, raising his arm to shield his eyes from the driving rain. It came in flurries, as if the storm clouds were being broken up by the force of the wind. Head high, her hair streaming out behind her and with every moment growing darker in the rain, the wicce strode across the yard to the eastern gate. Oesc knew her as a woman just past middle life, her shoulders rounded and her body thickened by the years. But now she looked taller, and young, and by that he understood she was already in trance.
    Below the mound that raised the village above the floods stretched a level land of wood and marsh and field, dotted and channeled by pond and stream. To the west, a little light shafted below the scudding clouds, touching the Law-Oak and the Field of Assembly where the tribal moots were held with a sickly yellow glow. In the distance he caught the pewter gleam of the sea. That last light gleamed on water that was closer as well, for from here he could see that the slow curve of the river had become a crescent grin of silver water that with every moment nibbled away more of the sodden fields. Monster-gate, they called it, but now it was not the etins who lived in the North Sea but the waters themselves that were devouring the land.
    Beyond the palisade that sheltered the workshops and the king’s hall, the long-houses of the villagers clustered closely along the slope. Oesc saw Hæthwæge disappearing between the last two and hurried to follow her. To the east stretched the home pasture, but on the west side, the marshes came nearly to the base of the mound. A narrow causeway, in this season half underwater, led through it. Picking his way carefully, Oesc followed the wisewoman. He could guess where she was heading now. In the heart of the boglands lay the dark pool where the Myrgings made their offerings under the staring eyes of the carven gods. Except at the time of sacrifice, most folk avoided it, but Oesc had gone there once or twice with Hæthwæge when she was gathering herbs.
    Though the rain had diminished, by the time he caught up with the wicce, water from swinging branches had drenched him as thoroughly as the storm. Together they pushed through the screen of alder and willow that edged the pool, and at that moment the sun set and the clouds closed in once more, as if the mists of Nibhel had overwhelmed the world.
    The wind stilled. Oesc shivered and drew closer to Hæthwæge. Reason told him that the horse whose hide and head were suspended on a framework of poles above the water was quite dead, but the water had risen, and it seemed now to be standing in the pool.
    â€œWhat is